PS 3513 

P6413 
F6 
1921 
Copy 1 



Flickering Candles 



BY 



,DITH 



C. G 



ARGIULO 



Flickering Candles 

BY 

Edith C. Gargiulo 



Published by 

The Mead Stationery Company 
Greenwich, Connecticut 






CopyrigJit ig2I by 

The Mead Stationery Company 

Greenwich, Connecticut 



OEC -6 1321 



Printed at 
THE FAIRFIELD PRESS 

GREENWICH, CONN. 



g)C!.A627977 



The Harp 



Caressingly her fingers gently 

win 
An entrance to its gate of golden 

memories, 
To tales of tragedies Time veils 

and lays within 
The arms of Romance until at 

last Fate sees 
The mortal love she slew immor- 
talized. 
In "Legende" the harp sighs out 

the woes 
Of these two lovers throbbingly 

— intensified. 
The last note lingers and then 
hushed — reluctant — goes. 
Amidst the plaudits that now 

take its place 
Sad memory turns aside with 

quiet grace. 

5 



Again she invokes each golden 

string 
And as enchanted, dreamily one 

seems to hear 
The bronzed boatmen on the 

Volga sing 
Across the rippling waters 

strong and clear; 
Their muscles swelling, rhythmi- 
cally they bend. 
Pulling with steady strokes the 

heavy oar, 
Anxious to reach the long hard 

journey's end. 
And humbly kneeling, bow their 

heads before 
Their favorite saint in some tiny 

wayside shrine. 
Confessing their small sins and 

asking help Divine, 
Smilingly the harpist answers 

the applause, 



"And now I'll give you" she tells 
us in advance, 

"A little thing I'm sure you'll 
like because 

I often played it for our boys in 
France — 

An imitation of a music-box." 
So from the vast 

Labyrinth of Time a voice floats 
from the past. 

Sounding a little thin and faint 
across the years, 

Still bravely it plays a gay incon- 
sequential air, 

Then perceivably the gaiety dis- 
appears. 

Already one can feel its quaint 
despair 

As gradually it grows slower 
then — ah, so slow, 

Reproaching neglectful hands 

that died so long ago. 

7 



To One Who Passed 
Unknown 

A wail of fifes, a roll of muffled 

drums, 
A deep resonant sigh, for lo ! he 

combes. 
This epitome of England's count- 
less host 
Who laid their lives and all they 

valued most 
Upon the pyre lit by the torch 

of greedy hate 
And passed — unsung, unknown, 

through grim Oblivion's 

gate. 
Ah, breaking hearts, that mourn 

so bitterly, 
Reflect, perchance this honored 

one is he 
For whom you grieve; A nation 

bows its head 



Ere he is laid beside the noble 

dead, 
Within the walls where only 

those may lie 
Whose deeds forever live, though 

they must die. 
Unknown one, we ponder though 

too late. 
Upon you, singled out by cynic 

Fate, 
Who knows it may be but a 

grewsome jest 
She lays today within the Ab- 
bey's breast. 
What were you, ere the crucible 

of war 
Proved you true gold? Ah, did 

your world ignore 
Your presence with loathing or 

a deep disdain. 
Or poverty wring your heart 

with rage and pain? 

9 



Did you exchange for dark and 
noisome trench 

The only home you knew—a pub- 
lic bench ? 

Ah, well, what matters now the 
life you led? 

The end proved you a man, when 
all is said. 

Life's verdict might be cruel, but 
now that she 

Has finished with you by Des- 
tiny's decree. 

You symbolize those who died 
that we might live to weep 

For the dear ones who lie, alas, 
"in death asleep." 



10 



One Mother 

The boys are coming home today, 

But not the one 
I loved so well, and faltering gave. 

My only son. 

How can I go on day by day, 

And yet not weep, 
For him who lies so far away. 

In death's long sleep. 

Yet, not alone I grieve. Alas, 

So many feel 
An empty life, a breaking heart. 

Years cannot heal. 

The unbereaved as bravely gave, 

All they held dear 
And went, as I did, through a 
hell 

Of dread and fear. 

They ran the same risk I did, 
But I lost. 

11 



still, I'll forget for one brave 
hour 

The cost. 
And welcome other mothers' 
boys 

Back home again 
And try to hide from their glad 
eyes 

My dreadful pain. 
I must not mar their joy today 

With selfish tear 
I'll smile and even wave my hand 

When they draw near. 
But when they pass I'll hide 
away, 

It will not be known, 
I'll only give my grief full rein 

When I'm alone. 
So I will kneel here by his chair, 

With folded hands. 
And send one little moan to God 

Who understands. 

12 



Caruso 

Can it be true we shall no longer 

hear 
Your golden notes that thrilled 

each ravished ear? 
Alas that Death should dare to 

take your hand, 
Leading you to the darkness of 

the silent land, 
And that our dreams latent, in- 
articulate so long 
No more can find expression 

in your song ? 
Nature took her fairest jewels, 

her woods, the breath of 

spring. 
Her rippling waters where the 

thrushes sing; 
The magic of moonlight, the 

sun's caressing ray. 
The soaring lark who greets the 

new-born day — 

13 



All things that make the heart 

of man rejoice 
She wove into the cadence of 

your voice. 
Fear not although your sun of 

life has set, 
The world you leave behind will 

e'er forget ; 
Because within your breast for 

a brief space 
The soul of music found a rest- 
ing place. 
You are immortalized until, at 

last, 
Man's little race is run, his day 

is past. 
Like a tired child when the light 

wanes and shadows fall, 
You found your mother-land the 

the best of all. 
Italy, were you not proud when 

with deep pain oppressed, 

14 



And sated with the world's ap- 
plause your son came home 
to rest? 

Bid him adieu. He has not lived 
in vain, 

Since beauty of thought and 
sound help us regain 

Some long lost Paradise hidden 
beneath Life's scars. 

The soul's dim yearning for a 
fairer world than ours. 



15 



At Riversville 

A tiny pathway leading straight 
into the woodland's heart, 

Where all day long the murmur- 
ing wind's coolness and 
health impart; 

The sunbeams chasing shadows 
to and fro with golden 
grace 

Seem sanctifying with God's 
smile sweet nature's dwell- 
ing place. 

The great trees arching over 
head aloof in stately pride, 

A verdant canopy and cool re- 
treat for all the birds pro- 
vide, 

And hidden from the eye, with 
swelling throat and folded 
wings. 

Sweet, clear, with rippling melo- 
dy a little wood thrush 
sings. 

16 



In fragrant corners where all 

day the shadows lie asleep, 
And ever prevailing silence 

reigns the woodland crea- 
tures creep. 
And love and fight and play but 

with a frightened watchful 

air, 
As though they felt Death's 

presence sternly vigilant 

everywhere. 
Silhouetted against the blue with 

fierce gleaming eye, 
A hawk glides slowly past and 

sends to earth his wierd 

cry. 
The butterflies float to and fro 

insouciant and gay 
Happy in the sun and warmth 

that brightens their short 

day. 
And over all the heat waves 

brood kindly beneficent 

17 



Drawing forth sweetness, be- 
stowing life, banishing dis- 
content. 

We, wandering from the haunts 
of men, worship at nature's 
shrine, 

And never was homage more 
devout or Goddess more 
divine. 



18 



Roosevelt 

A nation grieves beside this 

silent one 
A nation? More! — a world, 

pauses to drop a tear 
For this brave soul, America's 

great son 
A man "without reproach and 

without fear" 
And we who watched him with 

such love and pride 
Can hardly think it true that he 

has died. 
Grim Reaper, were you not con- 
tent to take 
Your dreadful toll of countless 

lives last year 
And leave for poor Humanity's 

sake 
The noble man who rests upon 

this bier? 

19 



He gave his best in battle's list 

of slain 
But ruthlessly you still must 

strike again 
Roosevelt, the world will be a 

lonely place 
Now you have gone and left us 

here to mourn 
Your noble life, your rugged, 

kindly face; 
We rage at Death that he should 

dare have torn 
From life one whom the world 

so ill can spare 
To help us bear our sorrow, toil 

and care. 
We grieve that he has passed 

beyond our quest. 
This man who never faltered on 

his way. 
Now glad, he turns aside to well 

earned rest 

20 



After a brave life's happy, use- 
ful day. 

And we must be content, even 
though we weep. 

Knowing "He giveth His beloved 
sleep." 



21 



The Boy Scouts 

A burst of inspiring music the 

thunder of tramping feet, 
Behold an embryonic army 

marches proudly down the 

street. 
The Boy Scouts, God bless them, 

coming from far and wide, 
America, England, France, Italy 

— where valor has never 

died. 
Rallying round their standard, 

symbol of all that's best, 
In lands where honor is sacred 

— not merely an empty 

jest. 
Born of that martial Mother 

England whose mighty 

name 
History ne'er has recorded with 

a sneer or a blush of 

shame ; 

22 



England who never falters when 
glory leads the way, 

Ask her heroic dead — legions of 
them-their myriad graves 
could say 

"As soon fight England as Ger- 
many?" Beheve it not 
Earth, 

In political propaganda the hor- 
rible thought found birth. 

But harken ! the Scouts are com- 
ing. Can it be ten short 
years 

Since America first saw their 
banner and the name of 
the Scout appears, 

Each year a record of service; 
the units all keeping fit, 

"Carrying on" in war times, 
every one "doing his bit." 

Now the red tide has vanished, 
the voice of the war god is 
still, 

23 



So the Scouts are having a 
glorious week of supreme 
good will. 

Seven days fraught with kind- 
ness, each one a perfect 
gem, 

For Time to take in his fingers 
and set in his diadem. 

Let us cheer the troop as it pass- 
es till the sound shall reach 
to the sky, 

And every head be uncovered as 
the flag of the Scouts goes 
by. 



24 



In Memory of ]. S. C. 

He was "just a real boy," but he 

had the happy art 
Of making friends and nestling 

in one's heart. 
Alas that we must see him thru 

such bitter tears 
That we must pass through all 

the lonely years 
Without his cheerful laugh to 

make us realize 
That 'neath the clouds are smil- 
ing sunlit skies. 
The spring won't be the same 

since he has gone. 
The woods and flowers and even 

th-e first bird's song 
Will bring instead a poignant 

memory 
Of how he loved them all and 

liked to be 

25 



Wandering with his chums, a 
happy, carefree Scout, 

Through fragrant woods prying 
Nature's secrets out. 

But now, dear Boy, you know a 
more perfect day 

Eternal spring is yours and we 
must say 

These tears are selfish, this lone- 
liness and regret. 

We know you're safe within the 
Father's arms — and yet 

Forgive us, for with such deep 
pain opprest 

Ah, God ; 'tis hard indeed to say 
"Thou knowest best." 



26 



A Qrey Day 

A dead white carpet on the 

frozen ground, 
The tree boles sharply etched in 

black by misty rain, 
A stillness as of death coldly 

austere — profound 
As Nature lies subdued beneath 

grim Winter's touch again. 
The leafless twigs traced 'gainst 

the leaden sky. 
But, ah, the sadness of the east 

wind's sigh. 
Nothing disturbs grey Desola- 
tion's reign. 
Silence keeps guard with fingers 

on her lip, 
Within her arms Echo sleeps; 

in vain 
The winged minutes thru Time's 

fingers slip, 

27 



The sombre hemlocks mourn- 
fully reply 

To all the sadness of the east 
wind's sigh. 

The river trailing its black length 
midst white clad banks, 

Softly murmuring silvery solilo- 
quies to itself, 

Wanders to oblivion. From the 
serried ranks 

Of firs an owl broods waiting for 
night's stealth. 

The skud hangs low, day wanes 
and dusk draws nigh 

Wrapped in the sadness of the 
east wind's sigh. 



28 



Adelina Patti 

Alas, great Cantatrice you have 
been dead so long 

You died when the grim De- 
stroyer Age 

Closed his hard fingers on your 
throat, silencing your song 

Laying it away in Rosemary 
within Time's page. 

Was it merely Fate's caprice or 
your own choice 

To be remembered not as a 
woman but a voice. 

Your tragedy is that you out- 
lived yourself 

The world cannot mourn for you 
again 

It has no time for those laid on 
Fame's shelf. 

But you are deaf now to all 
vanity and pain. 

29 



You lived to see yourself become 

a memory 
How bitter even Fame some 

times can be. 



30 



To E. C. F. 

Her figure isn't up to date; 

She hasn't got much nose ; 

Her voice is strong at any rate, 

When raised to state her woes. 

She turns upon a world like this 

A look of mild surprise, 

Surely, where ignorance is such 
bliss, 

"Tis folly to be wise." 

But all the sweetness of the 
spring 

Seems centered in her tiny 
frame ; 

Certainly no daintier little thing 

Into this tired world e'er came. 

And when, in that first happy 
hour. 

She laughed into her parents' 
eyes, 

T'would seem God sent His fair- 
est flower, 

31 



straight down from Paradise. 
To gravely gaze now is her whim 
At ten pink toes, two dimpled 

thumbs. 
She's also interested in 
What goes into her tummy turns. 
Although prohibition's struck 

the town 
To bottles she most boldly clings. 
On law and order she doth 

frown — 
She recognizes no such things. 
Queen of the house, her sceptre 

cruel 
She wields in democratic times; 
And none disputes her iron rule 
Or ventures Bolsheviki signs. 
How does she do it? one might 

say 
When creeping past her like a 

mouse ; 
But adult rights all flit away 
When there's a baby in the 

house. 

32 



Just An Old Man 

Ah me, the years are slipping by 

so fast — 
As Death draws near sometimes 

I feel aghast. 
To think, how soon I'll leave it all 

and go 
Into the great beyond ; ere long, 

my friends, I know 
Will almost forget I ever passed 

this way; 
So short is memory in man's 

little day. 
My birthdays, which I hailed 

when but a boy, 
Came, oh, so seldom, each a pride 

and joy. 
But now when they come, it 

seems to me as though 
T'were only yesterday I saw the 

last one go. 
33 



It's been so long since I've gone 

on the shelf — 
And lonely, too, to be here by 

myself, 
And see life go on happly with- 
out me. 
The young are thoughtless and 

they cannot see 
How one likes to be consulted 

now and then; 
But the world has little use for 

poor old men. 
So I just sit by myself and 

smoke 
And think of other days and 

sometimes choke. 
No one suspects the cause ; they 

only say : 
"What's the matter, grandpa?" 

as they turn away. 
Love's done with me. When one 

is old a heart 

34 



Should die before the body. 

Passion's smart 
Is only for youth; Age has no 

right to feel 
Tenderness or the joy of Beau- 
ty's deep appeal. 
And pleasure, too, it seems, I 

must renounce 
Lest bitter critics on the old man 

pounce. 
Old age, you see, must cling to 

soHtude 
And if you do and sit around 

and brood. 
The mind gets rusty and the 

brain grows numb 
Speech grows slower, thoughts 

lag or fail to come. 
Age, you're man's greatest curse 

when I see what you've 

brought. 
Perhaps Death's not so cruel as 

I thought. 

35 



Blakelock 

Tread softly for from out these 

walls of clay 
A noble soul has passed in death 

away 
Crushed by a universal blind 

brutality 
That looks with stupid eyes that 

cannot see 
Aught but the dross it worships 

until — too late 
A genius breaks beneath the 

blows of Fate. 
Here lay him gently; he has 

done his part 
To beautify the world that broke 

his heart. 
These canvases emblazoned with 

his name 
Shall proudly hang within the 

halls of fame. 

36 



Too late ye come — Fate smiles 

with malice grim 
At those who now delight to 

honor him. 
Alas! These hands that lie so 

white and still 
Will never prove again their 

Master's skill. 
These eyes now closed forever 

in Death's long sleep 
Shall not again be called upon to 

weep. 
This mind grown numb before 

Life's bitter blast 
Struggles no more, but rests in 

peace at last. 
Master, you go to swell that 

brilliant throng 
Unnoticed in life, in death re- 
membered long. 



37 



Fail 



ures 



Failures we call them, with a 
callous sneer, 

These ill-used step-children of 
hard-hearted life, 

The drudgery is theirs, the 
bloody sweat for mere 

Slender existence gained by bit- 
ter toil and strife. 

They break the stones, the while 
necessity laughs, 

To make for pleasure seekers 
smoother paths. 

To every venture, Fortune turns 
a frowning face. 

Their utmost efforts meet with 
her rebuffs 

Until they reach that final meet- 
ing place 

Where life with grim brutality 
proclaims her hard home 
truths. 

38 



God, be merciful to these poor 

failures then 
Condemned before the judgment 

seat of men. 

Goaded by that unjust thing we 
call Fate, 

Harried by wifely clamour for 
gifts bejT^ond reach. 

No wonder hearts break or cor- 
rode with hate, 

Lips fail to smile and strife em- 
bitter speech. 

Haunted by fears of sickness — 
failing strength 

And age that catches up with 
them at length. 

Mocked at by Beauty's calcula- 
ting laugh, 

Flouted by gilded toys they for 
a space would hold. 

They see all worshipping the 
golden calf 

39 



As history tells us did the Jews 

of old. 
But history surely needs to stand 

aghast 
Our present worship shames 

that of the past. 

Small blame to Fortune's favor- 
ites if they feel 

So far removed from these poor 
moth-eaten things, 

They themselves placed the 
crown and humbly kneel 

Before the glory dross so richly 
flings. 

Te Deum — Glittering monument 
is the rich man's share 

While Lethe's bitter waters 
drown the failures care. 

Roll on, old vulgar world, from 

your rod. 
Thank God these failures shall 

obtain release, 

40 



Let's hope that somewhere un- 
derneath the sod 

In dreamless sleep they find 
belated peace, 

Some flowers at least may 
bloom upon their hearts 

And ease them from life's bitter- 
ness and smarts. 

Meanwhile, they struggle on 
from day to day 

Bearing as best they can their 
servitude, 

Hoping until the end, Dame For- 
tune may 

Eventually turn to them in a 
kindlier mood. 

Death, all effacing, blots them 
out at last 

And casts them on the dust heap 
of the past. 



41 



Eugenie 

Ambition, do you gaze with cau- 
stic sneer 

On this sad one who sleeps so 
peacefully here? 

Are you content, Fate, since be- 
yond your grasp 

This creature whom you played 
with, slips at last ? 

You set the stage and graced her 
with such art 

She won at last an Emperor's 
fickle heart 

And rose upon his love to share 
his throne — 

'Twould seem that Fortune 
smiled for her alone. 

Cruel jester, to have raised her 

to such power 
Then tear all from her grasp in 

one dark hour, 

42 



Driving her a fugitive from a 
nation's wrath 

To exile and relentless Sorrow's 
swath. 

You forced long years on her in 
which to mourn 

For those dear lives she loved, so 
cruelly torn 

From her fond arms. Then chur- 
lishly at the last 

You gave some recompense for 
all that's past. 

Hurling her arrogant foeman in 

the dust, 
You granted her starved heart 

one bitter crust. 
Nemesis whispered to her, "Now 

do not weep 
Vengeance is yours at last and 

you may sleep." 
Woman of Sorrows, adieu. Life 

largely gave 

43 



Fleetingly all you asked, save 

when you craved, 
Immutability, which belongs to 

Death, not Life; 
Serene it waits to crown us after 

fear and strife. 



44 



Birth and Death 

A wail of protest ancient as the 
earth ; 

The first sound of the human 
soul at birth ; 

Two wondering eyes and tiny 
fluttering hands — 

Time fills his glass with over- 
flowing sands, 

While Death fades in the back- 
ground for a space, 

And Life bends o'er the cradle of 
the race. 

A grey, tired face, and eyes that 

stare with fear 
Into the cold black shadows 

drawing near. 
Life casts aside the blindly 

grooping hands 
And Time shakes from his glass 

the last few sands. 

45 



Teeth clinched, a short, sharp 
struggle and then sur- 
cease — 

Death comes so quietly and 
brings release. 



46 



